


The Rise

by MelisandreStark



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: F/M, a bit kinky, biblical mirroring, but that's fine kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 00:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelisandreStark/pseuds/MelisandreStark
Summary: The end of the world signals the beginning of another.(What I imagine would have happened if Michael's plans had gone through maybe)





	The Rise

Wilhemina Venable knows a lot of things. Her IQ is the one of the highest, if not the highest, in the world— she has multiple degrees and award, basically ran one of the world’s most successful businesses and was by some beautiful twist of fate chosen to be one the last remaining humans on the earth. Despite the ever looming food problem that her Outpost has been facing, Venable has been content here in her little kingdom, ruling with an iron fist with Ms Mead by her side to punish those who choose to disobey her. The world is in complete chaos all around this building, and yet she has managed to create a community of perfect order and discipline.

It’s this order, she knows, that makes all of this so appealing. With 7 billion people it was impossible to keep any strict, consistent law that could be reinforced everywhere. The human society was simply too big—and the people too animal—for it to ever work. The Armageddon has almost been a blessing in way. Surely, in theory at least, only the best should survive. The richest, those with the real power; the big fish no longer have room for all the little ones in the pond.

Everything in the outpost _was_ completely and utterly fine until _he_ comes waltzing in with his cancerous horses, toxic aura and looming promise of death or salvation.

His name is Michael Langdon and his face gives Ms Venable and vague and confusing sense of déjà vu, though not enough to mean that’s she’s actually seen him before. Hundreds and hundreds of faces have passed by her in her life and even she, with all her intelligence, cannot recall and name each one. In terms of the cooperative, her only source of information up until now has been from her old bosses who are now most likely deceased—this new ‘representative’ is completely unknown to her.

It’s early in the morning of Langdon’s third day at Outpost 3. She likes to give the illusion to the guests that she’s always there, always watching—some godlike figure they can fear and respect—but the reality is that she too requires rest, more so than she likes to admit due to her condition.

( _Her greatest shame_ )

Still, she allows herself a strict six hours of sleep every night and makes sure that all the guards take shifts save for Mead who, of course, does not require rest. The darkness of night provides no cloak for the other residents to hide under anymore, and Venable needs to make sure everything is in order every moment of the day.

This morning her internal alarm wakes her just a few moments before the real sound of the clock on her nightstand kicks in, so she pulls herself from the warmth of her bed into an upright sitting position. Her hair is in a braid to keep it out of the way, and she’s adorning a long black nightgown with her secret purple panties that she likes to wear—one little spark of personal rebellion against her own rules that give her a sort of bizarre tingle.

She chooses a slim fitting black dress from her wardrobe—un-corseted and unlike those the purples wear for no reason other than a corset would damage her back further. Cane resting against her leg, she begins to dress herself and manages to slip into the dress, style her hair and sort her face out in under 20 minutes. They don’t eat breakfast here, not since the cutbacks a few weeks ago, so she finds Mead patrolling the corridors instead.

“Anything to report?”

“Everyone’s been well behaved all night.” Mead tells her, regarding her with solemn duty. “Not a peep from anyone. Langdon’s been up a while though—maybe a half hour? He’s sitting where he interviewed the gay one before.”

Venable nods in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Ms Mead. You may return to your duties now.” The machine nods to her and gets on her way. The fact that Mead was modelled after a woman makes Venable instinctively refer to her as a ‘she’ in her mind, but the truth is her most trusted ally is most probably an ‘it’ when you really think about it.

After a small period of thought, and with the knowledge that no one save Langdon is awake, she returns to her room to tidy herself up a little more. This happens most mornings save when someone gets up abnormally early, or she needs to check stores and records. Perhaps, since she is the host, the proper thing to do would be to go and greet Langdon—a little kindness may just be her ticket to the Sanctuary—but she finds that she lacks the emotional will to do so.

There is a knock at her door a few minutes after she previously closed it behind her.

“Who is it?”

The door creaks open and Venable clenches her fists. Everyone knows of the impropriety of entering a lady’s room without permission—nothing about modern culture should have changed that—and here Venable’s rules are final in any case. If this is one of the purples, they’re getting a beating. A grey, she’ll have their heads blown to rotting meat in a matter of minutes.

She can’t stand disobedience.

_(But the punishment is even more fun that the order)_

Her stomach flips when she sees Langdon in the doorway, offering a smooth smile that makes her want to pluck his pretty blue eyes out. “It is common etiquette not to enter a lady’s room without permission, Mr Langdon.” She glares at him.

“It’s also common etiquette to respect your superiors, Ms Venable.” He shoots back, falling back in her armchair and crossing his legs. “I wanted to talk to you.”

This could be her interview—and as much as she’d like to be rude and fight she knows that her natural instincts regarding his existence most certainly won’t get her to the Sanctuary. After about 30 seconds of regarding him coldly she opens her mouth. “Is this about your selection?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“It’s one or the other, Mr Langdon.”

“And I am under no obligation to tell you anything, Ms Venable.” Her name rolls of his tongue so clean and smooth—she imagines how it feels. In her hand as she cuts it out, in her mouth as she bites it, down under her skirt...

It takes everything in her not to redden at that vile image.

“You are not.” She agrees somewhat reluctantly, pulling the duvet neatly over her bed up and sitting on top of it. “What do you want to ask me, if you will not tell me why?”

“What is your name?” He asks simply, watching her like a tiger would its prey.

She bites her lip at the question. This is a test. Everything here is a test. “Wilhemina Venable.” She tells him without elaboration.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Langdon nods. “And yet you have everyone call you by your formal title.” He says, and raises an eyebrow at her. That’s more unsettling that she’ll ever admit, and she shifts on the bed. “Why is that so, Ms Venable?”

Her legs cross just so to steady herself, and she grips her cane in her frustration. “I am in charge here. It is only respectful that my charges call me by a formal title. I am not the only one who chooses to do so—Ms Mead, for one, and the homosexual creature Mr Gallant. It’s simply a matter of propriety.”

“Okay.” He seems to accept that answer. “I am intrigued by your description of Mr Gallant. A ‘homosexual creature’, you say?”

“The man is openly homosexual.”

“But why name him a creature?” He licks his lips. “Would you consider yourself homophobic, Ms Venable?”

She isn’t sure how to respond to that. “With a population of 7 billion homosexuality was doing the world a favour, limiting the amount of breeding. I had no strong opinion on it then, and have no strong opinion now.”

“What is your sexual orientation?” The question is abrupt and sudden and she finds herself taken aback.

“That is a very personal question.”

“It is.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you, after you answer the question. Maybe not.”

She gulps despite herself. “It’s not something I’ve ever really explored in much detail before. I would say that I’m straight though it would be an assumption more than a confirmation.”

He nods, seemingly storing that information in his mind. “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse, Ms Venable?”

“That is a very inappropriate question.” Her face steels but reddens.

“I require an answer.” He looks through her. “Please answer the question.”

“I...” She wonders if this would be harassment in the old world, wonders whether it’s in her jurisdiction to administer him any punishment. “Yes. I would not like to elaborate any further. It is very private.”

Langdon seems to accept that. “Take off your dress.”

She shoots to her feet and bangs her cane on the floor as some sort of warning. “How dare you!”

Michael Langdon stands taller than her in a challenge. “I want to see your pain, Ms Venable.” His hand drapes gently on her shoulder and he begins to circle her, her entire body tenses when his hand slips to her back and as a reflex she brings her cane down hard on his foot.

He doesn’t even flinch.

“Stop it.” She says and as much as she hates herself for it she’s almost crying.

“Do you want to go to the Sanctuary, Ms Venable?” Her lip trembles and she drops the cane, letting him continue despite all her better instincts screaming otherwise. It is cruel—it must be some form of torture—for him to want to gawk and stare at her like some misshapen specimen,  a _freak,_ but then again she supposes that’s what she is. If the sanctuary is for the best of the human race, surely her disability will hold her back—it weakens her, makes her imperfect.

He slowly unzips the back of her dress despite her rattled breath and regards the spine that claws out from underneath her skin with complete outward indifference.

 “Does it hurt?” He asks.

“No.”

“But does it hurt you?”

_No No No_

“Y…Yes…” She gasps and falls down to her knees. Her face is tear streaked and her nose is running and she doesn’t have a tissue— she tries to wipe it all away so he won’t see even though he’s right _there_ and her pain is bubbling at the back of her throat.

And he does see. Michael Langdon sees everything that she resents just beneath her skin, all her shame and her pain for some sort of brutal examination. What is it that he wants from her? What more can she do?”

A strong male hand grips her chin and slowly turns her face around. Her breath sucks in as she meets his cold blue eyes. “D-Do I pass?”

His face leans in closer and closer to hers, their lips are almost brushing and Venable can no longer tell if she dislikes it or not. Everything is just desperation, a base human desire to survive and everything now rides on this man.

_Take me._

“Maybe.” She can feel his hot scentless breath on her face. “Maybe not.”

His lips meet her cheek and linger there, before he leaves her room and she remains in pitiful and confused silence.

 

* * *

 

Venable does not speak to Langdon for another six days, nor does she speak of him to anyone. He’s spoken to each person in the Outpost individually without a whisper of his plans and analysis, his face is like a blank page when she tries to read the truth or even attempt to presume what he may be thinking.

Any confidence she may have had in herself has slowly dissolved into grits of distrust and a little despair. Her mind is efficient, sharp and quick, that she knows—but her body is tainted and wrong, he’ll never take her to the sanctuary when there are others younger, fitter and in perfect health available to him at the same convenience.

They’re sitting having dinner. He doesn’t always sit to eat with them, but tonight he is here—all the interviews have been completed and now it’s all just anticipation for the residents of Outpost 3.

_I’m not even sure I want to know._

One thing about these meals, something that Venable’s noticed from the start, is that everyone eats at their own slightly varying pace. The rich Coco girl (a ridiculous name if Venable’s ever heard one) shoves her rations down her gullet with reckless abandon as if someone will take it from her if it remains on the plate a moment longer—the talk show host, who normally keeps to herself, eats with a similar urgency yet more refinement.

Those who are beginning to lose the will to live, predominantly Mr Gallant and Andre, pick at the translucent cubes like a child would his vegetables. Without realising, Venable has slowly begun to do the same.

_(She isn’t as strong as she believes, or hopes, to be)_

Langdon, however, does not touch his own plate. Sure it’s plain and lacks anything moderately attractive but it is required for any human’s survival, and with the knowledge (and without the understanding why) she does force herself to intake her complete rations every night without fail.

The old woman, Evie, is dead. Venable is mostly glad of that since the woman had offered nothing but agitation during her time at the Outpost—she’d sucked up and backstabbed with every breath as if Venable could have been vain and naive enough to respond to that. Added with her seeming immortality, it seems that it would have been fairer to the rest of them to have her killed from the beginning since all she has ultimately done is use up their supplies.

“Can anyone recall,” The talk show host, Dinah, says. “What month, or even season, it would be now?”

“I’ve got a feeling it’s Fall. Just intuition.” Coco replies, cheek pressed into her hand unattractively.

Dinah smiles. “Fall was always my favourite of all the seasons. I remember, on my show, we used to do all sorts of crafts round that time of year that—“

“No one cares about you’re fucking show!” Gallant moans pounding his fist on the table. Venable watches as one would watch monkeys in zoo. “All there is out there are corpses and radiation—there are no seasons anymore, its nuclear winter all the time. If you don’t shut up about things we don’t have any more I’m going to stab you with my goddamn fork.”

“That’s enough.” Venable interjects, banging her cane on the floor. “No one is stabbing anyone. At least, not again.” She shoots Gallant a look. “To answer your question, Ms Stevens, our calculations would suggest that would have been spring.”

If she was going to reply, she changes her mind and looks down at the matriarchs comment. There’s a short pause before Langdon stands and Venable’s stomach drops.

“As Ms Venable has just informed you, it is spring.” He says, looking her straight in the eye—a gaze so strong and she fights to hold it. “A time for new life. This Outpost won’t last much longer, and I am going to be leaving tomorrow. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Aren’t you taking some of us with you?” Coco asks quickly, and if she had not Venable would have most certainly said something.

His head inclines ever so slightly towards the billionaire’s daughter. “I am.” He looks over the group as a whole. “I have poisoned all of the cubes of those who will not be joining me for the sake of saving you the pain of slowly starving to death. When you sleep tonight most of you will not wake up. The effects are irreversible so I suggest you enjoy your last moments on the earth, and hope for salvation.”

“Aren’t you going to tell us?” Coco barks.

There is a slight shake of his head.

Venable thinks about questioning him further but is frozen still. Coco is already shoving a finger down her throat and throwing up on the floor (something Venable may not be alive to clean up, she realises) and Timothy has fainted.

“You know this is murder, right?” Emily looks around from where she holds Timothy on the floor. Venable has known they exchange saliva for a while but never made a rule that strictly defies that so has just monitored them closely. “He can’t do this!”

“He can.” Venable finds the strength to stand, leaning all her weight on the cane. She doesn’t really know why she’s defending him, but continues to do so. Her fate has already been decided. “He is you’re superior. I suggest you shut up and accept it—this may be the last night you have.”

The greys are fed before, separate to the purples, and Venable assumes they have been given the same treatment. Normally she would remain with the group for a while, just to listen and contemplate the simplicity of their minds, but she finds herself not at all in the mood. She returns to her room straight away and locks the door behind her, lacking the will even to converse with Ms Mead.

She changes her clothes and brushes her hair out, long red tresses tumbling down her back like a thick wall shielding her delicate spine.

In all her visions, in every fantasy, she never pictured her death quite like this. Many different potential deaths have come to her in dreams or in idle thought as, she is sure, they do for most people. Whether this is a good death or not she can’t quite tell—on the one part, it won’t be painful, but it’s also not voluntary. She supposes it could be worse.

Her nightdress comes back on, and Venable lies down on her bed without the duvet on, closing her eyes and sending a prayer to whatever God or power that may be listening to see her journey onwards well. A woman of science mostly, she’s always believed that death is the end of the line and it amuses her that how in moments of peril or desperation humans often turn to the improbable in a final hope.

At the end of the day, she grudgingly reminds herself as she does exactly what she once would have laughed at; she is just like everyone else.

She could prolong this. Stay up until her organs shut down and she’s dragged into the darkness scratching and clawing, or she could take an early night and be civil about it.

Ever a woman of propriety, Wilhemina Venable reserves herself to her fate and lays herself down, eyes shut, and dreams vividly.

 

* * *

 

Michael Langdon has loved before.

He loved his grandmother—Constance Langdon—a woman in his childish innocence he believed to be invincible, immortal, as all children do. Her loss had broken something inside of him but it was really all self-inflicted; he never meant to hurt all those people, really, or choke her but it just sort of happened. It was (and still is) in his nature and things that happen as a result of that could never have been avoided, he nods realises.

Ms Mead was his second love—there’s something about a strong woman—a matriarch—that seems to suck him in. Like a moth drawn to a flame Mead had been perfect, leading on down the path that he needed to be on, that his father always intended.

The devil was made a divine creature, completely perfect, and retains some form of that in his decision to king of hell. As his son, Michael has a part of that in him but his mother was human, Vivian Harmon was a completely regular woman, which has resulted in imperfection and pain that try as he might Michael just can’t stamp out.

He’s never quite been able to tell if love is an imperfection. He’s seen it work wonders; he’s seen it crush the soul from people. Constance loved him, to begin with at least—though her love died with every creature that was sequentially added his list of victims. Mead loved him, he’s sure of that, and perhaps this robotic replacement still believes that it does but he isn’t naive enough to truly think that a robot, no matter how close in looks and personality it may seem, could ever make up for the woman that was cruelly taken from him.

Michael’s sanctuary is in fact a real place on Earth—it’s like the Garden of Eden. Before the blast he evacuated the island of Fiji and cast a strong protection spell around it so that it would remain the worlds one true sanctuary, a safe haven that has animals and fresh water and a natural, sustainable supply of fresh food.

It’s perfect, and can sustain the new race of humans until the rest of the world rejuvenates in his image. Now it’s about choosing who to populate it with.

The truth about the other outposts is something that’s he moderately twisted in his retelling of the events. It is true that one of the outposts was overrun by the cancerous, sick people left breathing after the blast—wheezing in desperation as they get closer and closer to the end. But the rest of them were too hidden, too well protected to be discovered so easily.

And all of the others are dead, that much is true at least, but it is by his own hand that this is the case. He’s been looking for the one, the one and only person he will take to his sanctuary promising fair trial and testing to all that were fortunate enough to be kept safe from the nuclear winter raging outside. Each person he’s met up until Outpost 3 has been an abject failure—they’re all so weak and vain and lacking character.

The Antichrist has standards—in order to carry on his line and begin to repopulate he needs someone with a dark spirit simultaneous to intellect, raw intellect that can be passed on to the next generation. With that criteria he could have chosen a good number people he’s met so far—a good 3/4 of them have already sold their souls to Satan anyway—but that isn’t what he’s looking for at all.

His human half is as present as it is a nuisance and whoever he chooses will be his only companion, at least until they conceive and birth the first child of the new generation. To satisfy his personal need—emotional and social needs—he needs someone that he’ll be able to tolerate (a factor that eliminates a great many people that he’s met), someone smart with a deep personality, and someone that he connects to on a spiritual level.

It isn’t about love at this point. Love is a bonus, should it ever occur. This is about survival and this about finding perfection where so much of it has been lost.

His arrival at Outpost 3 was optimistic— Ms Mead is here, for one, and considering how sparse each of the other Outposts had been Michael had held high hopes for this place. What he has found here is far different to what he’d expected when this search began, and yet far more special.

Her name is Wilhemina Venable. It’s a long name, an almost aristocratic name that rolls off the tongue oh so eloquently. Her body is tainted and flawed but he still finds her beautiful—she’s always dressed up like a doll, forcing herself into routine and order and system where others would find nothing. God, she’s intelligent, and that’s what he needs.

The fact that she believes this night is her last only helps create the air of hopefulness for all the others. Her crooked spine her lead her to the absolute certainty that she is not what he wants, she is not what he needs and therefore she is one to be overlooked and thrown out. Michael does not trust her, not yet—but believes her more trustworthy that any of the others left in the world. Venable’s loyalties lie only to herself at this moment in time, and for that he almost respects her more.

She is sleeping right now. There’s a case with her things that he had Ms Mead pack waiting outside her room, and when she wakes up he will transmute her, himself and Mead over to his sanctuary. It was once called Fiji but now it is, in every sense, Eden.

Sleep will not come to him tonight.

 

* * *

 

Venable has a sharp mind, but even she takes about ten minutes after she’s awoken to realise that she is awake. The mad theories of afterlife come rushing into her mind initially but she quickly banishes them despite her disbelief, perhaps in shock, because for whatever reason she is alive and breathing.

There is one dress laid on her armchair, she notices—a relatively plain black one— with her cane, but the rest of her wardrobe is empty which leads her to understand that someone has come to mess with her things while she slept. That annoys her a little, the fact that someone has been touching her things, but she manages to ignore it. A small grin spreads her lips into a curve.

_I’m alive._

Surely it is not only she who has passed whatever Langdon was testing for—that would simply be implausible for a plethora of reasons. For a reason she can’t yet comprehend, though, she _has_ been chosen—and it’s certainly not for her physical aptitude—and this is something she must embrace until her last breath. This is her opportunity to live further, live longer, to make something of herself in the sanctuary. Why Langdon has chosen her she cannot quite say, but it certainly is a blessing she’s going to grab with both hands.

She’s in the process of brushing out her hair when Ms Mead enters her room. Mead is a machine and therefore cannot die—Venable has admittedly become quite fond her during their time here—and actually smiles at her. “Ms Venable?”

“Ms Mead.” She acknowledges, bowing her head.

“Mr Langdon wants you in his room now.” Mead says. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

Venable frowns. “When I finish my hair I’ll—“

“Now, Ms Venable.” Mead reinforces. With a sigh Venable supposes he’s giving her the literal gift of life so she may postpone her hair just this once. Part of her wonders who else will be present once she gets there, and a larger part really is praying that the vast majority of her old charges are laying cold, dead and rotting in their beds.

Outside her room is a trunk (where, she assumes, all her possessions have been placed since they weren’t in her room) and Mead picks it up for her, tailing her closely as she makes her way to Langdon’s room. Being the respectful human that she considers herself to be, Venable knocks.

“Come in.”

 

* * *

 

She does just that, and sees him all completely dressed up and ready before her. Her hair is down, red locks tumbling down to her mid back and she suddenly feels almost naked before him without her normal battleaxe style. His scan over her for long moment and then he snaps out of it. “Good morning, Ms Venable.”

“Good morning, Mr Langdon.” She replies. “Are we waiting on anyone else?”

“No.”

She finds herself very surprised at that.

There’s a small bag that he has slung over his shoulder, the same one that he brought with him that contains some clothes and the MacBook that he’d been somehow able to use, and he offers her his hand. Venable looks around her cautiously, and hesitantly takes it.

“Ms Mead.” He says, and she takes his other hand. Before Venable can even think let alone respond the air is sucked out of her chest and the picture around her vanishes and morphs into something that she never thought she’d see again.

There are trees and birds and a river all around her—grass beneath her shoes and clean air, flowers and leaves and—

Her breath catches in her throat and her head is all of a sudden very light—Venable faints in shock.

 

* * *

 

He’s waiting by her bed a few hours later when she wakes up in a foreign room.

“Are you alright?” Langdon asks, and she blinks several times to get her eyes to focus.

She offers him terse nod and looks around pulling herself up into a sitting position. “Where am I?”

“The sanctuary.” He tells her. “You will continue to live here until the rest of your days. It is the one place on earth that was saved from the blast. There is sustainable food, water, and protection from those who may seek to steal from us.”

The use of the word ‘us’ does not go unnoticed by her. They’re in this together now. Her mind runs in a thousand different directions—how could one sole place be saved from such a global catastrophe? Scientifically is makes absolutely no sense to her, but it’s not the first thing to be completely shocking and alien to her so Venable holds her tongue on that front.“And what do we do here?” She asks.

“We live.”

“I know that,” It comes out a little more abrasive that she intends it to. “But if what you say is true, and I do not find myself doubting it, then we are quite literally Adam and Eve. I’m no Christian but I am familiar with Genesis—‘be fruitful and multiply’, Mr Langdon.”

He laughs at that, and Venable bites her lip. “I’m not going to force you to do anything.”

“I don’t want children, Mr Langdon.” She says with a stern assuredness. “You need to know that. We are the end.”

“That isn’t my decision to make.” He nods to her respectfully which almost surprises her. “It’s your body. There aren’t any rules anymore, Ms Venable. You can do what you like with it.”

“I’m the only woman in the world.” She sighs to herself and looks around. “How did we even get here? The last thing I really remember is at the Outpost.”

He pauses, glancing down and then meeting her eyes. “Have you ever heard of the term transmutation, Ms Venable?”

“No.” She replies, because she hasn’t.

“A more common term for the process is teleportation.”

Venable frowns and reddens slightly. “Mr Langdon, do you take me for a fool?

Michael shakes his head. “No. I take you for the last woman on earth who still has much to learn. The concept of ‘magic’ as you might put it has always been close to human hearts—think of the prominence it had in society even under the assumption that it didn’t exist. Let me show you,” He lifts his hand and gently moves his finger and the bed Venable’s laying on starts to shake. She clutches the side.

“What are you doing?” She tries to keep the apprehension out of her voice.

That question effectively answers itself as the bed begins to rise above the ground and float. She finds herself I’m a state of disbelief even though she could not to begin what just happened with science maths—it defies every law of weight and gravity she has been taught since she was a girl.

After a long moment he delicately puts the bed back down to solid ground where Venable feels a lot safer.

“What are you, Mr Langdon?” She squints at him.

“I’m the Antichrist.” He says without any hesitation. Venable sucks in a breath.

“Am I expected to bow to you or something?” She asks almost critically. “Forgive me, but I find myself disbelieving you heavily.”

He shakes his head and smiles slightly. “One of the reasons I chose you, Ms Venable, is that you own your own soul. All your success came from personal drive and your own desire to do well—no external forces played any part in you personally. Do you remember your bosses?”

“Those fools? How could I forget.”

At that he smiles wider. His smile this time is different to what she’s seen before—it’s sort of innocent, raw and sweet. A delusion. Venable doesn’t really know what to believe about him at this point. Realistically she has no real reason to disbelieve him; this is the man who chose to keep her alive above all others and has granted her a new sustainable home. But when one claims to be the ‘Antichrist’ and lifts things with his mind, teleports from one place to the other there will always be scepticism, no matter how much evidence is thrust neatly before her.

“Their souls belonged to my father, your bosses, and lot of the others.” He tells her. “Any success they had came from the power of Satan himself. The same can be said about so many of the old human world’s icons and celebrities, businessmen and politicians. Not you, though.” He look into her untouched soul with crystal eyes. “You did everything for yourself.”

In truth, the idea of those two idiots she used to work for doing some sort of satanic ritual in another vain attempt to get rich doesn’t surprise her. It’s the prospect of it actually working that’s messing with her head more. “Is your father the devil, Mr Langdon?” She already knows the answer, just needs to hear it out loud.

“Yes, Ms Venable.”

“Then what sort of creature is your mother?” She can’t look at him, eyes pulled to the floor in a wave of unexpected anxiety. “Some sort of succubus? A hellish demon, a fallen angel—“

“Her name is Vivien Harmon.” He interrupts her. “I haven’t ever spoken to her. I was raised by my grandmother.”

That, she realises, is one of the first material facts he’s given her about his life before the outpost. His name is Michael Langdon and that is all she’d know about him, really—sure there’s been an understanding of his personality, an assumption and guess of what could have been but never anything from his own lips, never anything certain.

Venable isn’t too sure how to respond to that, and simply nods. “I assume you know everything about me. Being the Antichrist.”

“No.” It is said rapidly and with absolute certainty. “I could find out—if I wanted to. I know some things about you that haven’t been from you. I know that you’re middle name is Marie and that you’re 36 years of age. I know that you have a severe form of scoliosis and that you ran a robotics company almost single handily. I know that your birthday is the 22nd of April and you have no siblings or relative of note. I know what was handed to me in a file.” He stands up, slowly taking a step to his left. “The rest is a matter of you trusting me enough to tell me.”

“Trust, Mr Langdon?” She seems taken aback by the assumption. “How am I supposed to trust you?”

“I’ve chosen you to be the last living woman in the world.”

“I know nothing of you, essentially nothing.” She shakes her head. “My ‘file’ is useless information at most. We aren’t friends—I don’t have any friends, you’re just a man who I met under strenuous circumstances and for whatever reason you find me tolerable, Mr Langdon.”

He retracts his step and gently brushes his fingers over her hand. “Friends don’t call each other by their formal titles. I won’t name you anything other than Ms Venable as long as you wish me to, but I must request you call me Michael.”

“I’m not sure—“

“It isn’t that difficult, Ms Venable. It is just a name.” He says without an exasperated tone. “You may rest now if you would like. My room is to the left of yours, and there is a bathroom to your right. If you need anything call for me—I'm going to look around outside.”

She frowns. “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Briefly.” He replies, walking towards the door. “But if I’m going to be living here the rest of my mortal life, I’d like to become more familiar with my surroundings.”

It’s a fair comment so Venable just nods and let him leave. Her case is laid at the foot of her bed so she leans forward to grab it and a curtain of red hair falls in front of her face. She blushes, despite herself—her hair hasn’t been loose since her childhood and she’d forgotten about it. She wonders what Langdon—not Langdon, _Michael_ —thinks about it inexplicably.

 

* * *

 

He’s gone now but her door’s been left open just a crack. She could go up to it and close it but the thought of isolation, for the first time in a long while, isn’t comforting to her. She finds herself thinking about Coco and Dinah and Emily and Mallory—all the women, and she’s sure he was looking for a woman, that he could have chosen instead. Most (emphasis on most here, since after looking at Vanderbilt’s file she’s learnt that the so called ‘young influencer’ is actually 3 years older than herself) are fitter physically, much more willing to follow him to the letter, prettier and as an ‘Eve’ figure just more overall appropriate.

The entire purpose of this sanctuary—something that was made very clear back at the outpost— is to restore humanity. She had been under the assumption that there would be a small colony of people, maybe 20 or so, and that would serve as their foundation but there is no one else here save herself, Langdon ( _Michael_ ) and Mead whose robotic core makes her essentially separate to their situation.

Concepts of repopulation always struck her as something she’d steer clear from. It needs to be done in order for the human race to continue on, but Venable has absolutely no respect for those who have previously chosen to breed and could not see any measurable benefit in terms of her personally. She was raised in the foster care system—with no parents or siblings to speak of—and as a result swore to herself long ago that she would never have a child of her own to be dragged around miserably as she was.

Sex is something that confuses her, too. In her late teenage years and early 20s Venable had several affairs with a variety of partners—both male and female—but it never really did anything for her. Everyone else always seems to find more pleasure in base human desire than her, and ‘love’ has never even crossed her mind in regards to a single person she’s met.

At age 36, Venable is in a state of utter confusion. It’s like there’s some sort of grand revelation sitting, hiding at the back of her mind that she’s been staring at blankly for so long but cannot quite make out the words; everything has just become so clouded and grey and there aren’t any clear rules anymore, no one that she can arrange into an order and to keep peace simply because there is no one left.

Her mind is a cacophony of unwanted and unwilling thoughts surrounding Langdon—his smile thats sly like a fox yet sweet like honeycomb, his hand so gently against hers, the whispers of his kiss against her cheek, against her lips, her body...

Venable tries her very best to banish these thoughts and fantasies, but they seem to have permanently rooted themselves in her mind.

It has never occurred to her before this moment that the loss of people could cause her any pain. But it does. It really does and she doesn’t want it to but it hurts.

Later, she’ll go out to take a proper look at the sanctuary for herself, but for now Venable opens her case, takes out her hairbrush and pins, and goes to the bathroom to put her hair back to rights.

 

* * *

 

It takes two weeks for Venable to become moderately comfortable with calling him Michael. It takes even longer than that for her pride to acknowledge that wearing tight Victorian style gowns are uncomfortable and impractical in the exotic heat that the sanctuary has naturally.

In total, it’s been a month and a half before she musters the courage to knock on his door and do something about it. It makes her extremely uncomfortable but she remains rooted by his door with a distressing lack of pride when he opens it before her wearing a pair of tan trousers and a short sleeved black t-shirt.

He looks vaguely surprised. “Ms Venable?”

“I was wondering...if it’s not too much trouble, of course, if perhaps I could borrow something of yours to wear.” She looks down in her shame. “My own clothes have left me rather... overheated and it is becoming unbearably uncomfortable.” She wipes a hand over her forehead self consciously not able to meet his eyes

He smiles at her kindly. “Of course; you should have asked sooner. All my clothes are in this trunk. Take anything you like.”

With a terse nod Venable enters the room and squats down to the height of the case, leaving her cane on the floor next to her. Her spine feels strained at the motion but she stays—she’s lost a lot of pride today, but no enough to ask him to get the clothes out for her.

In her haste to get back up she pulls out the first few things from the case and thanks him quickly before quickly removing herself from the room, leaning on her cane heavily and closing his door behind her. Once in the safety of her own room, she lies what she managed to grab down and internally slaps herself.

Before her lay a pair of red boxers and a long purple Nirvana t-shirt.

She considers just keeping the gown she’s wearing on—the thick, black floor length gown that has her sweating from places she didn’t even know you could sweat from—but finds herself stripping out of it before she can change her mind. Michael has dinner with her outside every night as they watch the sunset (it’s nothing romantic, completely platonic—they are, after all, the only living left on the planet) and it’d be rude since she’s made such a deal of changing her clothes if she wears a gown still, wouldn’t it?

When she takes her dress off she has nothing but a pair of black panties underneath. Bras don’t really go with Victorian attire and corsets would damage her already wrecked spine; her breasts aren’t really big enough to require much actual support. After putting the nirvana shirt, which is long enough to cover her behind, Venable is delighted by the breeze passing through and past her legs which is almost orgasmic in comparison to the stifling heat of the dresses.

So when she goes back to the bathroom (the only place with a mirror on the island—and yes, it is an island, as she’s discovered after some exploration) she almost laughs at herself. She’s literally just wearing panties and a t-shirt paired with a sleek black cane and serious period hairstyle. Brushing out her hair in an attempt to have it appear more normal, Venable styles it in a simple ponytail instead to keep it out of her face and sighs.

This should be shameful. Two years ago just the thought of someone seeing her like this would be mortifying. In fairness to herself, this was always inevitable—and she’s happier that it’s happened sooner rather than later.

(If a month and a half counts as ‘sooner’)

It’s another hour or so that she spends reading ‘Lord of the Rings’ (the limited resources in the sanctuary include a set of Tolkien’s work, something that she’d forgotten how much she  loved as a child) when she sees Michael again. It’s 7 o’clock as expected, and every day at 7 Michael makes dinner for them both while Ms Mead waters and replants crops for them.

There’s a knock at her door which he does every day to take her to eat.

 “I’ll be right there!” She says, marking her page and opening the door. His eyes go wide when he sees her and she finds herself blushing despite her better instincts.

“What?” She barks defensively.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “You just look...really beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.”

She fights the urge to snort at that. “I’m not sure if your vision is impaired, Michael, but I’m wearing a band shirt.”

“I’m not sure what it is.” He shrugs and to her surprise goes a little red himself. “Maybe it’s the hair? Or the purple? I’m not sure. But it does make you look beautiful, whatever it is.”

“I...thank you.” She smiles weakly yet genuinely at him and goes outside to the table where they eat, a salad of fresh vegetables is already in a bowl waiting.

The sanctuary is like a paradise. There are some animals on the island and they move about at their own free will, overall it would take about two days to walk the entire distance of it—something that Venable appreciates. She can’t walk that far herself at all, but there are abandoned shops and houses that provide rest breaks along the way and she’s prepared to undergo that journey in the future. It’s new surroundings—her surroundings and she’s excited to get to know them further. It already feels like she’s been here a long time, and she supposes that a month and a half probably is a long time for some, but the distance from coast to coast is the rest of her life so she figures she’ll have time to get to know it much better than she ever knew her environment back when she lived in the US.

He pulls her chair out for her as he does every day (the kind of etiquette that just really gets her going), and she nods to him in thanks, sitting down leaning her cane against the table. He starts to serve the food which she knows is fresh from this morning since he was picking them this morning. “I didn’t know you were a Nirvana fan.” She says, gesturing to the t-shirt. “I wouldn’t have thought the Antichrist had any real opinions on music.”

“I’m still half human, you know.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “And Ms Mead got it for me. I don’t think I ever heard a more than a few of their songs.”

Venable nods. “I never really like Nirvana myself. Too...boisterous.”

Michael smiles at that and sits down after serving the food, and picks up his fork. “What did you like?”

“I liked Marilyn Manson.” He chokes his salad.

“Did I just hear that right?”

“I don’t think you heard it wrong.” She grins in her new comfort around this man. Over the past month there hasn’t really been much conversation but she has become familiar with him, been able to understand him more. The person who came to the outpost was cold and harsh and strict but this man’s nature is far more demure than one would expect the Antichrist’s temperament to be, far more human. “I appreciate that style of music. If you’re going to make music and make it different, then go all the way.”

 “That’s the last thing I expected from you.” He smiles right back at her. 

 She shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t matter too much now.”

 “No, but it’s nice to know.” Michael says with a shrug. “Actually, there is something I’ve wanted to bring up with you.”

 The expression she gives him tells him to go on. 

 “I would be willing to offer you my services in terms of your spine,” He starts. “If you could give me something in return.

 Her grin fades and she looks down to her salad, stabbing a tomato. “What do you mean ‘your services’?”

 “I can fix it. You’d be able to walk and run and bend and whatever without any struggle—without the cane.” He says.

 “If you can do this, then why didn’t you offer before?” She shoots him an angry look.

 “Because it’d be a strenuous process, and I’m no angel.” He cracks his knuckles. “And before you would never have been willing to give me what I desire in return. I won’t work for free.”

 Venable rolls her eyes. “And here I was thinking we were somewhat friends.”

 “I’ve saved your life above more than seven billion others. If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.” He raises an eyebrow.

 “What could you possibly want from me? I have nothing.” She looks up and him and meets his eyes.

 “A son.”

 

* * *

 

 For reasons that are perhaps petty and childish, Wilhemina Venable does not talk to him for another 7 days after he asks her that. She does speak to Mead for some sort of social interaction to save herself from going mad, but about everything but _that_ and refuses to let herself think on it. 

 It seems, however, that since the revelation that he can do something for her, that he could aid her, her back has only become more and more frustrating. Her coiled spine prevents her from doing things she might have liked to do, like swimming or running or even just walking without collapsing after a few minutes. 

 Once, Venable would have given anything to get her spine fixed. But no doctors had been able to do anything about it, and even if they had been able to she isn’t sure she would have been able to stomach the thought of people seeing her shame long enough to correct it.

 Michael has already seen her back though, just the once. He kissed her then, she remembers—just on the cheek, just enough to cause a flutter in her stomach. While before the blast she’d responded to flattery with an eye roll and rude comment, she blushes and can’t meet his eyes when he tells her she’s beautiful.

 He makes her believe it, which is a feat she had long considered impossible.

 One thing she does know for sure is that she does not love him—he’s too frustrating and pompous and proud for that. He’s the fucking _Antichrist—_ last time Venable checked that isn’t the kind of man to love anyone despite several claims he’s made otherwise.

  _Half-human my ass._

 Wrenching her hand behind her, Ms Venable slowly runs a hand over her bent spine through the Nirvana t-shirt, finger smoothing every vertebrate. She sighs, and steps out of her bedroom with a block of soap and a towel over to a waterfall about five minutes away. Just the knowledge that she could be able to walk her fast without straining her back makes her lean on her cane in annoyance and frustration more. 

 There are showers all over the island but with no running water they prove themselves useless. The waterfall has proven to be an unlikely pleasure for Venable since the water is heated completely naturally just warm enough to be pleasant. A sanitary woman, Venable makes sure she showers at least once a day, if not twice, just to maintain a level of propriety since even the notion of being grimy or dirty makes her squirm uncomfortably.

 Her new life, she realises as she plods on closer to the waterfall, is almost as structured as her old one and by her own design. She gets up every day at sunrise and rereads one of the books Michael collected for her from all the limited households that are left in the sanctuary.  She then proceeds to eat something simple for breakfast and takes a 30 minute walk, accompanied by Ms Mead every second day. Normally she’ll take a quick shower after that. By lunch time she goes and sits by the beach and watches the waves come in one after another, staring out into the blue and making out the cloud of grey and black far in the distance. 

 She’ll then come back, read, eat, shower, read, walk, sleep and repeat the whole thing day after day, sometimes slipping in some drawing or a little cooking. Michael normally does a lot of these things with her, and she’s found herself enjoying and craving his company as time goes on—but for the past week the last thing she’s wanted is to see or speak to him for completely petty and selfish reasons.

 Shaking her head, Venable steps onwards and around a cluster of trees where she’ll find the waterfall waiting for her. The water is clear and quite beautiful, not like the murky springs she’s seen before back in America. Oh, she really does love the water—these her thoughts exactly as she steps past the trees and sees the only man left in the world standing washing himself completely in the nude.

 He hasn’t noticed her—or at least doesn’t seem to have noticed her—so Venable dashes back behind a tree in a mad haste. Panting, she squeezes her eyes shut but can’t quite get the image of him out of her mind.

 But oh, he’s attractive. Perhaps not in the typical sense but there’s a huge appeal there that she’s never quite experienced before. His arms are a little thinner and childlike but his torso is well built, and his legs are firm and strong. A few weeks ago Venable cut his hair a little since it’d grown quite a bit but not too much—she adores his long hair and has dreamt about it far more than she’d like to admit.

Taking a deep breath and summoning in all the confidence she has, Venable takes her t-shirt off, grabbing her cane and soap and walking down to the water with all the courage she can muster. 

 Michael doesn’t even notice her until she steps into the water, and when he turns around the man blushes quite horribly and spins back around. The fact that she seems to have this power over him brings a grin to her lips. “Good morning.”

 “Yeah.” He keeps his back to her, bare ass, legs rigid and still. “It is.” 

 Venable drops her cane into the water and grabs his arm for support. He’s warmer than she expected—and looks up at the contact.

 Filled with anxiety, uncertainty and a sudden burst of courage, Venable feels herself lean forward and slowly place her lips upon his own. She doesn’t know why she’s doing it—god, she’s probably not even a good kisser—but at the feeling of reciprocation and the fact that her spine is beginning to fail her she leans in and let’s him hold her up.

 He seems just as inexperienced at her, which is reassuring and also very enlightening as she musters the courage to press her bare chest against his. Michael is the one to pull away.

 “Is this your way of saying yes, Ms Venable?”

 “I’m not doing this for you.” She replies. “It’s for me. I’m doing this for me.”

 “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He says, and kisses her cheek tenderly. 

 She blushes, feeling the déjà vu. “And I think, maybe, you’re on a first name basis now.”

 “Wilhemina?”

 “If you like. But I’d imagined when I was younger that my friends might call me Mina.”

 His smile widens to a grin and he places a gentle hand on her hip. “It suits you.”

 Spinning her around, Michael runs his hands down her spine slowly, closing his eyes. She can feel herself growing warmer from the inside out, warmer and warmer until it’s hot and uncomfortable and she’s paralysed in place. Her eyes close and suddenly she’s overcome with drowsiness, her mind is slipping away until suddenly it isn’t and she’s awake and he’s right there and she’s standing tall without her cane and without fault.

 But when she turns back around to see him he recoils and takes a shaky step back—her reflex is the grab his arm to support him because she can do that now. “Are you alright?”

 “I’ll be good in a minute.” He scrambles towards a rock and takes deep breaths, toes curled and fists cupping his cheeks.

 Venable has no contextual understanding of how his magic works—how any of this works, really. Her mind that was once consumed with science and raw human knowledge has grown and expanded and now she finds herself in the position of trying to comprehend and react to the man doing something impossible.

 Her back does not hurt at all—it’s as good as new, but she finds herself a little shaky as she wades through the water towards him. Looking down in her newly banished shame, she takes his hand and places it gently to her own cheek. “Thank you.” She breathes out.

 Blue eyes meet her brown. “You are welcome.” He says, breathing settling. She brings his hand to her lips and kisses him softly, experimentally. There is a price to pay and Venable has never been one to steal.

“How are you feeling?” He asks her

“Never better.” She tells him, and with another spur of courage brings his hand down to her breast. Michael’s eyes widen.

“Now?”

 “When else?” Climbing into the rock, Venable straddles him in nothing but her black panties with her newfound physical strength—cane discarded forever—suddenly regretting her previous confidence as she realises that she really doesn’t know what to do next. Fortunately, he’s seemed to get over his initial shock and leans up to kiss her with a force and strength that she finds extremely arousing.

 One of his hands rests on her cheek while the other remains at her hip, nails digging in just enough that she can feel herself getting wet in her panties.

She kisses him back with a matching force that makes their encounter more of a battle than a union—she loves that deeply. Between her legs she starts to feel an unfamiliar hardness that makes her pull back and lick her lips.

 

* * *

 

Wilhemina lays in Michael’s bed three weeks later, naked in his embrace. She wonders if, being the Antichrist, he knew this was always going to be at some point inevitable or if it’s simply a lucky twist of fate. He is rough and hard with her most of the time; her physical health has lead her to be able to take a lot more. She can swim now, a bit. She can run.

 Its one morning when they’re out for breakfast that she realises that she is most likely carrying their child. Venable doesn’t know much about pregnancy or anything of the sort—she’d always assumed that it wouldn’t be anything she’d associate herself with—but that is the price she paid for her back. 

 And all things considered, she is she happy that she paid it.

The question of love and partnership between her and Langdon is essentially irrelevant at this point, because she doesn’t love him. Everything she does is for herself predominately and the same applies for him. But she is stronger than ever and her son will be stronger still and she will make a life for herself here; rise from the ashes of the human race.

Occasionally she finds herself thinking back to the group of people she’d commanded in an outpost not so long ago. They are not remembered fondly but Venable does find herself often wondering if they were ever possibly going to be Langdon’s ‘Eve’. Her memory is excellent but over time the lack of different faces has caused all of the old ones to blend together and blur in her mind. 

They will not be recorded in any future holy texts—but this will be.

She remembers that Adam and Eve’s first son was called Cain; she likes the name well enough but also notes that Cain killed his brother, and assuming that this is not going to be her only child she doesn’t really want to see her children killing each other. Their father might be as Satanist as they come, and her own morals may be quite easily bendable, but she still has a loose idea of right and wrong that should be passed down. This is her chance to remould the human race in her image. 

“Adam lived to the age of 930.” Langdon tells her one night as they eat.

“Aren’t you immortal or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. But I imagine that you and I will have a similar life span to the first of our forefathers.”

“We aren’t calling our son Cain.”

Michael looks mildly amused at that. “We aren’t Adam and Eve despite appearances and I’m not having my son killing his brothers. Names hold weight.”

“You’re right, though the irony of you being named after an archangel does not escape me.” He raises an eyebrow. “I suppose it wasn’t my father who chose it.”

“I don’t really understand all that godly stuff.” Venable says. “I suppose that doesn’t really matter anymore. But...I admittedly find myself worried that this son of yours is doing to be some demon.”

He narrows his eyes. “He’ll have some of the devil in him. About a quarter. I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

“I just don’t want him hurting his brothers and sisters.”

Langdon seems surprised. “Brothers and sisters?”

 “I imagine that one isn’t enough to really restart the planet. And if I’m perfectly honest the idea of being the literal cofounder of the new human race is quite appealing. I suppose this time I’m not just a wife, and this time I am not the submissive woman who waits on the man hand a foot.” She shakes her head. “The woman of this race will be better. Stronger. Smarter.”

 Michael Langdon does not disagree with this sentiment, and they find themselves in a position of quarrelling happiness for the next 930 years after securing the future of the human race as a whole.

 

 

 

 


End file.
